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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885914">Through the Shards of the Looking Glass</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vecieminde/pseuds/Vecieminde'>Vecieminde</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1942, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative ending for Blitz, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), GO Angst Bingo 2020, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kidnapping, M/M, Mirrors Are Important, Mutual Pining, Or just about to become one, The Blitz, Whump, descriptions of injuries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:28:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vecieminde/pseuds/Vecieminde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who did this to you?” he finally settles on the question.</p><p>The demon is clearly reluctant to answer, his bleeding lip becoming the victim of his teeth. Neither does he meet Aziraphale’s gaze. The angel sighs, gesturing around the room. He needs information, now.</p><p>They wanted something out of this demon as well. </p><p>Aziraphale freezes instantly at the thought and when he looks up, he can tell that Crowley knew every word that ran through his head.</p><p>“I didn’t mean it like that. I would never — I could never —I am so sorry. I am so sorry I wasn’t here on time.” </p><p>~~~</p><p>Aziraphale cannot let go of the missed opportunity after the bombing of Blitz. He must find Crowley but when the door to the demon’s flat falls open and silence is all that greets him, Aziraphale fears he might have been too slow.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GO Angst Bingo 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Through the Shards of the Looking Glass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first proper entry for GO Angst Bingo 2020. The prompt was “Who did this to you?”</p><p>I wanted to write a oneshot intense angst that turned really into a whump. I lately rewatched the series again and Blitz stuck with me, so words just poured out. A dash of pain, you know?</p><p>Lookout for the tags and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>He inhales and gently pushes the handle down. It doesn’t even need to go down all the way. The door is already open. He had expected a creak or a wheeze. Anything really that would have given a sign that there was something alive in it. To his even greater distress, only silence greets him.</p><p><em>Courage, Aziraphale. You must do this.</em> — He tells himself, attempting to muster even an ounce of bravery in himself. Something that will make him go in.</p><p>
  <em>~~~</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Lift home?” Crowley had asked. His polished boots crunched across the rubble of the bombed church, as he strode towards his car. The fire was scorching the crumbled pillars and stones. The flames were incandescent, casting a little light in the darkness. But it was enough to reflect on the smartly dressed demon’s sunglasses as he passed. To Aziraphale, it seemed like Hellfire. Perhaps it was. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serpentine eyes peeked at him. Even just a glimpse was enough to dazzle Aziraphale. Hypnotize? It’s hard to tell. What Aziraphale can tell is that his heart — for the first time — demanded to beat and do so ferociously. His back had screamed to be allowed to release his wings and his mouth had desired to confess.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I figured it out, Crowley. I know what I want.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And what is it that you want, Aziraphale?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But that conversation never happened, because he was an angel. He couldn’t. He mustn’t. He wished with his all damned heart to not be a coward and speak and act. To be the one to break the wall that Crowley had been chipping away at for centuries. Aziraphale wanted the wall between them to crumble. But thousands of years of Heaven had instilled in him utter loyalty to authority and mistrust in demons. The former was never fully applied or believed. The latter had commanded him to play safe. He had to be wary.  He had to see Hell in those serpentine eyes that in his heart he knew held in them only devotion to him, an angel. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not just an angel.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Crowley had stopped briefly, back to the angel. He was waiting. He knew him too well. Crowley knew words were hanging between them, and he gave Aziraphale the chance to voice them, as he has many times before. Aziraphale heard another heart, beating as anxiously as his own. It was the right moment. It was the moment. They both knew it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The words were left unspoken and Crowley had indeed done nothing more or nothing less than given him a lift and left with a quick “goodbye.”Aziraphale had heard the screeching of the tires. It had felt like a backhanded slap across his face. It stung worse. Infinitely worse and no one else but himself was to blame.</em>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>With the sound of the tires still screeching in his ears, Aziraphale gets the necessary boost to step into the flat. The carpet underneath mutes the creaks of the floor. It’s too dark in this small flat - the only source of light is a faint glow from the living area. He doesn’t dare to make a sound. It feels like one single breath or noise would shatter this fragile house of cards he has stepped into. It smells after Crowley. He halts and his eyes widen, a glow of Heavenly power awakening in them. The flat smells like Crowley but in an alarming way. Metallic. Copper. Wrong.</p><p>There is no stopping now. Aziraphale rushes into the nightmare. The light source turns out to be the green banker’s lamp on the floor. There isn’t much furniture in the room. A sofa, an armchair and a coffee table, dinner table and four chairs. The sofa and the armchair have been knocked over and pushed against the wall. The coffee table is smashed to pieces. It was a strong table. Oak. It takes power to demolish it to such a state. Supernatural power.</p><p>More than anything, Aziraphale is bothered by the chair placed in the middle of the room. He has seen this kind of setting before. This flat was now an arena and the chair had been for the one who watches how the blood was spilt into the carpet that was soaked with it.</p><p>His hands clutch into fists. His teeth grit against each other with the ferocity of two rocks that want to start a spark of fire. His eyes glow brighter. His trueform scrapes towards the surface. It wants to be released with a screech of agony and rage that boils in his lungs and burns him from the inside.</p><p>The red soaked in the carpet would have been enough to wake fury in Aziraphale, but it is the black that causes horror to bloom in his mind. Corporal bodies bleed red. Demons black.</p><p>Aziraphale runs a shaking hand across his face and tries to get his thoughts in order. Tries to understand what exactly happened here and why his friend — just the thought of something happening to Crowley is like a punch to the angel’s gut, leaving him breathless.</p><p>“Fu — Oh, for somebody’s sake, Aziraphale! Pull yourself together!” he shouts when his eyes are stinging with something wet and unacceptable. He makes a quick motion to get rid of it when someone’s familiar yet painfully raspy voice inquires.</p><p>“Aziraphale? ‘S that you?”</p><p>“Crowley?” His head snaps up to look frantically for the source of the sound, “Crowley, where are you? I can’t see you.”</p><p>“Mirror.” </p><p>That’s when he notices the fireplace and the wide framed mirror above it. He stumbles closer to the looking glass, and gasps when instead of his own reflection, Crowley’s stares back. Well, Crowley-shaped-being would be a more accurate description of what Aziraphale is seeing. </p><p>Half of Crowley’s face is simply not there. Well, it is but underneath who knows how many layers of blood and grime. His other cheek and eye are completely swollen as is his jaw. The ginger hair that was so slick the last time they met is now a spiky greasy mess, morphed by sweat and blood. The suit jacket he was wearing is gone. So is the shirt. Aziraphale’s trueform would have burst through already if his mind wasn’t being sedated by the shock of seeing Crowley’s torso so damaged. Deep wounds run across his chest with dark bruises around his ribs. There are burns around his collarbones and neck. Cigarette marks. One thing as clear and real in this distorted picture are the two golden eyes that are intense and mesmerizing even through his face’s destruction. Those tell of his own surprise. He hadn’t expected to find Aziraphale here at all.</p><p>There is a moment of silence when neither of them is capable of speaking. Although Crowley more because of the physical inconvenience than the complete chaos of his mind and thoughts. Aziraphale stares at the reflection intensely, until Crowley growls “Can you please not stare like that? I know how bad it looks.”</p><p>This jolts Aziraphale out of his initial shock and he takes a step back, blinking, with Crowley mimicking his every movement. The mirror Crowley seems to at least somewhat function like a proper reflection. Aziraphale puts his head in his hands, trying to form a cohesive thought or sentence. His breathing is almost as loud as his heartbeat. Each breath wheezes in his ear.</p><p>“What —Why the...'' he gestures towards the chair without looking up, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Finally, he glances up. Something must have been frightening Crowley because his wide, horror-struck, eyes tell how much he wants to back away from the angel. Aziraphale tries to control his temper. He doesn’t want Crowley to feel threatened. The Serpent was never frightened. He was bold and loved a good challenge. A schemer with softness towards those who get under his skin.</p><p>
  <em>For insurance. When things go pear-shaped.</em>
</p><p>“Who did this to you?” he finally settles on the question.</p><p>The demon is clearly reluctant to answer, his bleeding lip becoming the victim of his teeth. Neither does he meet Aziraphale’s gaze. The angel sighs, gesturing around the room. He needs information, now.</p><p>They wanted something out of this demon as well. </p><p>Aziraphale freezes instantly at the thought and when he looks up, he can tell that Crowley knew every word that ran through his head.</p><p>“I didn’t mean it like that. I would never — I could never —I am so sorry. I am so sorry I wasn’t here on time.” </p><p>He comes closer to the mirror and his heart breaks at the sight of his companion who had been a constant in his life for thousands of years, broken and bloodied. He blames himself almost as much as the ones who dared to do this to him. Crowley appears so fragile and tired. He remembers Crowley’s plea but he cannot stop. He needs to find out where the black came from. It doesn’t seem to be from any of his currently visible wounds.</p><p>Once again Crowley reads the angel’s thoughts and warns him, “ Aziraphale. This will not be pretty. It doesn’t matter anymore. What is done is done.”</p><p>“Don’t say that!” Aziraphale came off snappier than he had intended. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp. I just need to know what happened and how you ended up in there?” He gestures at the mirror, Crowley reflecting his desperate motion. He takes another step closer. Now he has a better view of the wounds and bruises on the demon’s torso as well. The sight is ugly and painful. Those cuts and wounds and burns were done by experts who knew where it hurt the most. Thousands of years on Earth have led to him meeting people, who had a disturbing set of skills and knowledge of such methods and acts. The number of those people were bigger than many wanted to believe. </p><p>“Crowley, please. I need to know. I want to help you. Heal you...”</p><p>“Aziraphale, goddammit! Stop this! Whatever it is, stop it! Real-life doesn’t work like that!” This time it is Crowley who finally snaps. He shakes with fury but his movements are restricted by what Aziraphale’s corporation decides to do. The angel is more taken aback than he had excepted himself to be. Crowley has every right to be distressed and angry. He had just expected him to take it with the casual nonchalance or frustration like he took most everything. Aziraphale realizes how wrong this sounds and he wants to give himself a proper kick for thinking so low of Crowley, who had endured those atrocities.</p><p>“Forgive me,” is the best that Aziraphale has got. He takes off his hat, Crowley emptily mimicking the movement. He lowers his head, the hat dangling weakly beside him. There is so much more he needs to say but he knows if he doesn’t let Crowley take the lead, he will destroy any meaning or sincerity those words could have.</p><p>Rain starts to tap against the window when the rest of the world is silent.</p><p>“Turn around and look over your shoulder. Don’t stare for too long,” the demon finally says. Aziraphale acknowledges the reluctance and gives Crowley a nod of gratitude for the trust he doesn’t deserve. He turns around. One inhale of air and courage and he looks over his shoulder.</p><p>No matter what he imagined, he wasn’t prepared for what he sees. Now he finally knows where all the black had come from. Crowley's shoulder blades have been severely damaged. Somebody had wanted to carve out what remains hidden in the other realm.</p><p>“Do you still have your wings?” Aziraphale finally manages to ask, after several gulps and a death grip on his hat.</p><p>“I had when I was taken away.”</p><p>“Away?” Aziraphale blinks, not quite understanding what he means. The demon chuckles bitterly.</p><p>“This is not me, Aziraphale. I am the reflection. Crowley who you are truly looking for separated me from himself just before they came. I guess he wanted to leave a message behind. To you I assume.”</p><p>Aziraphale had been certain that he couldn’t be surprised anymore tonight. Turned out that once again — as it was the trend as of late — he was wrong. He looks at the carpet, stained with blood. So Crowley had known and still decided to stay.</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>“Who came for you or, well, Crowley? Who did this to you?”</p><p>Crowley’s face forms something that might be considered an attempt at a half-smirk. Aziraphale resists the urge to give him a pointed look.</p><p>“Hell. Duchess Lilith at the front line. Direct order from Satan.”</p><p>
  <em>My lot does not send rude notes.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale shudders, eyes unwillingly darting towards the chair that had been put in charge of the spectacle. He has never met Duchess Lilith. He hasn’t met any demon aside from Crowley, now that he thinks of it. Yet just like with Anthony J. Crowley whose fame precedes him, he knows of  Hell’s most notorious demoness. Adam’s fallen wife and Satan’s lover was as lethal as she was gorgeous. Aziraphale was put in charge of guarding Eden because of her rebellion. She was to be kept away from the humans but as Adam and Eve were banished, the hellion wouldn’t leave humanity alone. Not on Earth and definitely not in Hell. Scorpion — he heard the rumours in Heaven. She boils her victims alive. Injects them with excruciating venom. Has a thing for fire and flames. This was the Duchess Lilith that Aziraphale had heard about. Turns out it wasn’t an exaggeration.</p><p>“Was she alone?” the angel asks carefully.</p><p>“No. Turns out the entire duchy was quite excited to get their hands dirty. Not Lilith though. She never has to,” and as those words leave his mouth, the demon can barely look at him. Aziraphale catches himself on another horrible thought. He opens his mouth to ask before the audacity in him takes a far more useless form, but something else from deep within his guilty heart comes out instead.</p><p>“When did they come and take you away?”</p><p>Crowley presses his lips tightly together firmly avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. A horrible sense of foreboding claws in the pit of his stomach. </p><p>
  <em>I have others to fraternise with, angel.</em>
</p><p>“When?” Aziraphale asks again and the sound is broken, the words shattered. Crowley winces when he hears it. </p><p>It’s clear that Crowley doesn’t want to say but the silence is equally telling.</p><p><a id="back1" name="back1"></a>“It was when you brought me to the bookshop, wasn’t it? Right after when you went home?” Aziraphale answers for him, his shoulders slumping and his own heart feeling like a knife is twisting in it, telling the angel that he’s right. <sup><a href="#note1">1</a></sup></p><p>“It isn’t my home, angel. I just stayed here. Well, Crowley did at least until...yeah.” The mirror speaks with a sense of defeat that to Aziraphale’s ears is most foreign. Crowley never gives up. He always has an idea, a scheme or a plan. This version seems to not have any of it. Perhaps it was tortured out of him? He wouldn’t be surprised. Hell was after all about breaking one’s spirit. Heaven didn’t do much better.</p><p>“Crowley...” Aziraphale carefully starts. He approaches the mirror until he is as close as he can be.  The demon has no choice but to draw close too, although his fully serpentine eyes are wary of him, “I should have known better than to ignore your wish for me to provide you with holy water. I am sorry. I know it matters not and it cannot undo this cruelty that was bestowed upon you, but it is something I want you to know.”</p><p>Aziraphale lifts his hand and brings it closer to the mirror. Crowley is distrusting and nervous, so Aziraphale doesn’t push the contact until Crowley is a little less tense and there is a certain gleam in his eye. The same one that flashed when things remained unsaid. When everything was supposed to end differently. </p><p>“Angel...” the mirror says and the softness in it, the permission is as unexpected as anything else Aziraphale has discovered tonight. He closes his eyes and with a shuddering breath, his fingertips finally touch the looking glass. Cold. Smooth. Illusion. He opens his eyes again and sees Crowley so close like they have never been before. Their fingertips touch but both of them know it is not real. Wishful thinking. Dream in their minds for a long time now. Crowley smiles a bit sadly, or as much as his injuries are allowing him to.</p><p>“I will get you back. Whatever is left. Whoever. I will get you back,” Aziraphale states with determination. He is calm. It isn’t a teary declaration or vengeful promise. It is something much more solid and certain. </p><p>It is an inexorable fact that Principality Aziraphale will go anywhere, pay any price and win any fight to get back the demon Crowley or whatever is left of him.</p><p>“He will be waiting for you. You know he always will,” the mirror says.</p><p>“I know. I shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.” And for the first time, there is something of a smile on his lips. Smile painted by admittance when there is no space left for denial. “How do I free you?”</p><p>“You already know how.”</p><p>One last look. One last touch when the press against the glass is mutual and desperate.</p><p>“Wait for me.”</p><p>“I always do.”</p><p>The flat is filled with the noise of the mirror shattering, as a certain wooden chair is thrown against it. Pieces fall on the floor and slip through with blood black and red. The flat is empty. All the souls have left the ruin. No bombs fall on London that night. And in Hell...</p><p> </p><hr/><ol>
<li>
<a id="note1" name="note1"></a> Aziraphale had been stabbed before. His Roman holidays hadn’t ended as pleasantly as he would have liked. Turned out that getting stabbed in the heart was much more painful than he had assumed. This, however, hurt infinitely worse. <sup><a href="#back1"> [ ▲ ]</a></sup>
</li>
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